


Nelumbo nucifera

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Body Horror, Enoch Does Something Morally Reprehensible, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, M/M, Political Nonsense, Roleswap, Roleswap AU, The Beast is basically a bonsai tree, The Beast yeets Enoch, The Catskin getting exceedingly more monsterous, forced blooming, lotuses, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Enoch takes what doesn't belong to him.The Beast reclaims.Enoch makes good on his title of Lotus Gardener.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Nelumbo nucifera

They find him at dawning. 

The Beast’s way of governing his town is very relaxed. He remains in the shadows, occasionally intervening to ensure food is on every table. He keeps the worst of the weather off their roofs, tends to their crops, and for the most part, barely interacts with his citizens.  They don’t search him out, and he doesn't insert himself into their daily lives. 

Which is why being intentionally sought out while he is tending to edelwoods takes him by surprise. 

He hears their footsteps and watches warily as they approach.  It's a pair of witch-pups accompanied by their father.  The witch-pups run ahead of their father when they catch sight of him, tears in their eyes.

“Please,” The first begs him, hands clasped before her. “The Cat has taken our brother,”

He blinks down at her tiredly. 

“Unfortunately,” He drawls at last. “I do not have jurisdiction over anyone who eats the Cat’s food or crosses his border of their own will.”

“No! The Cat  _ took _ him!” 

He sighs frustratedly. 

“His catskin does not possess the strength this close to the border.” 

Her sister grabs her hand and stares up at him, expression grave. 

“His roots do.” 

Their father speaks up. 

“The three of us witnessed it, Warden.” His voice even. “I’ll take an oath and swear by it.” 

“And I also!” Cries one of the witch-pups. 

“And I!” Cries the other. 

Their father hushes them. 

“You’re much too young to swear by an oath,” He turns to address the Beast. “Please, Warden.” 

The Beast stares down at the man, cocking his head. 

The Beast considers for a moment. 

“Follow.” He murmurs. 

He leads them to an edel that’s easily double his own height. 

He addresses the father. 

“This is the tree of your father’s father.” He murmurs, and the man swallows thickly. “Place your hand upon it.” 

Obediently the man does as he is told, his pups watching with unveiled curiosity. 

The Beast’s eyes blaze. 

“Swear by the edelwood that no lies shall fall from your mouth when you touch it.” 

The man speaks. 

“I swear upon the tree of my father’s father, I shall not lie while I touch this tree.” 

Magic, dull and unfocused, rears up and sinks its teeth into the man; he barely flinches. 

“Tell me what happened.” The Beast commands.

The man trembles for a moment, then squares his shoulders, brow furrowing. 

“The Cat used his roots to take my son, who was only out foraging with us.” 

For a moment, all is still as the Beast waits for affirmation of falsehoods. 

When it does not come, he draws himself up to his full menacing height.

Green and yellow dance in livid patterns. He snarls low and dangerous. 

“Return to your home.” He murmurs, voice rumbling with wrath. “I shall see what I can do.”

The father removes his hand from the tree with a shudder and then shepherds his pups close to him.  The Beast stays there, still and unmoving, his furs fluttering in the wind as he watches them pick their way back through the forest and to their town.  When they have disappeared through the trees, he turns up on his heel and stalks towards the border. 

He stands there, ice clinging to his furs and bark in sheets as he stares into an oasis of green, dappled by flowers and fruit of all shapes and colors. 

“Cat!” He snarls. The ground shakes at the thunderous tone of his voice. “You have broken our arrangement.” 

He waits, fury in every line of his posture. 

His eyes burn. 

Slowly, a shadow slinks from under the undergrowth, unhurried, walking with the grace of a king. 

Its golden eyes fix on him as it licks a lazy stripe up one paw. 

“Hello, Ice Walker.” Enoch’s voice is soft, coy as if he has not just violated their centuries-long treaty. 

“Cat, where is the pup?” The Beast demands, a snarl edging his voice. 

“The witch-pup?” The cat’s tail flicks, voice still aloof. “Safely inside the bounds of my forest, under my governance.”

“You took him.” 

“Perhaps I did.” The cat’s eyes slide up to him. “Are you willing to bring such accusations to action, Warden? So close to summer’s zenith? Perhaps we should summon the council.” 

The Beast’s claws clench. 

“You will return him to me.” He takes a menacing step close to the fine line that divides harvest from winter. “Or I shall certainly retaliate.” 

“Hmmm,” The cat pretends to consider, then levels its gaze on him. “No.” 

Winter howls with the Warden’s fury. 

The cat speaks up before the Warden can retort.

“But I will send him home if you come to claim him.”

Suspicion prickles in the Beast’s furs. 

“You guarantee safe return?” 

“I guarantee the boy’s return.”

“You have already broken one arrangement today.” 

“I swear it on the skull of Clarabella Dean.” 

The Beast considers that for a moment. 

He takes one long stride and steps into the warm arms of harvest. 

Heat digs its fingers under his cloak, melting ice into steam that rises from him in wispy clouds. 

He shifts uncomfortably in the hot air. 

The cat inspects him with surprise in its scent. 

When it speaks, its voice is low, ears pricked forward in interest. 

“I will admit, I did not anticipate you calling my bluff.” 

The Beast stoops, anger still fresh under his bark. 

He grabs the catskin by the nape and holds it up, giving it an aggressive shake that isn't strictly necessary. 

The infuriating Harvest Lord simply blinks innocently at him.

“Where?” He glowers. 

“Set me down, dear.” The cat grins around thin sharp teeth. “And I will lead the way.” 

The Warden scoffs and unceremoniously drops the cat, which lands gracefully on its feet. 

“Follow.” The cat commands. With a flick of its tail, the cat begins to make its way deeper into its forest of illusions. 

The winter warden remains stock still for a moment. He shakes himself, slush falling away in a dripping mess, and in a few quick strides falls in step with the cat.

Water drips from the Warden. The deeper they get into the bright forest, the more he slumps, eyes going dim. His shadows drag across the ground, thin in places. He fades with each step, the regality of winter melting under the scrutiny of autumn, growing ragged.

At his side, autumn flourishes. 

The cat, once no larger than a mouser, is now up to Old Winter’s hip. Its once delicate features have filled out, soft fur now thick and coarse. Its eyes glitter with intelligence and its mouth a maw of prickling teeth. Its long tail sweeps in vast arks, paws tipped by razor-sharp claws that leave gouges in the soft earth. With each step, the illusion of a housecat seems to fall away, as if the creature cannot keep itself contained in such a small body so deep in its territory. 

The cat casts a sly glance up towards the Warden. 

“You don’t look well, Old Winter.” It purrs. “Perhaps you’d like to turn back.” 

The Warden glares with color ringed eyes. 

“Do not mock me, Cat.” He hisses, venom tinging his voice

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” The cat coos coyly.

Two hours in winding paths doubling back and following overgrown footpaths through the heart of harvest are not kind to Old Winter. 

Autumn at his side is more monstrous and more potent with each step.

At last, they come to a clearing where a boy sits, vines growing up around him, immobilizing him. Fear colors the air around him the same way it does around a caged animal. 

He glances up at the sound of footsteps and cries out, relief in his eyes.”

“Warden!” the boy pleads. “I have eaten no food, I swear by it! Please!” 

The Beast hums softly, eyes dancing with pale colors. 

“There is no need to swear,” He murmurs softly. “Your father has already sworn on your account. I have come to claim you.” 

The boy lets out a hiccuping sob of relief, and the Beast shoots a pointed glare towards the Harvest Lord. 

“Oh, if you insist, dear.” It murmurs slyly.

With a flick of the creature’s tail, the vines gripping the pup’s body recede. 

The boy stumbles forward to the feet of his master, tears flowing freely. 

The Warden hums a placating tune regarding the boy. 

The cat paces in predatory circles around the edge of the clearing.

After allowing the boy to collect himself, the Warden speaks. 

“Come, pup,” The boy stands on shaky feet, unsteady as a young deer. “I’ll return you to your home.”

The Warden glances up at the catskin, eyes narrow. 

“We will take our leave now.” He says sharply. “And I will return to our borders soon to discuss this transgression.” 

He turns and begins to make his way out of the clearing, the witch pup at his side.

A warm chuckle makes him tense.

The earth breaks beneath his feet, roots surging out and binding tightly around the Beast’s legs.

“Leaving so soon, Beast?” Enoch’s purr verges on a growl, low and threatening.

Enoch prowls forward, his long tail sweeping.  He’s even more monstrous than he was moments ago, easily up to the Beast’s chest, his fur bushy, and his mouth full of far too many sharp teeth. The edges of his form were wispy shadows melting and reforming and looming up. 

“We made a deal, cat.” The Beast growls. 

“Foolish, Warden.” Enoch purrs, eyes glowing gold as he leers forward. “I guaranteed the return of the Witch-pup if you came to claim him. I never guaranteed your return.” 

“Treacherous, Lotus Gardner,” The Beast snarls. “You are abusing semantics.” 

The cat’s grin grows inexplicably wider. 

“You and I have never agreed on the finer points of fine print, Warden, but it matters not.” He prowls forward and stops only when his face is inches from the Beast’s. “By your own rules, Warden, you belong to me.” 

“Stop this foolishness, cat,” The Beast growls. “Release me.” 

“Oh, I don't think I will, my hungry little sapling. You’re on my side of the border. You’re mine.” The catskin cocks its head. “I’ll even play fair and keep my word, Warden. I relinquish my claim on the witch-pup. He can return home. You on the other paw? You’re mine.”

The monstrous catskin turned its head to address the witch-pup. 

“Run along home, child.” Enoch’s voice bordered on sickly sweet. “I have no need for you any longer.” 

The boy stood there dumbly, swallowing dryly and wringing the hem of his tunic, his eyes frantically darting between his guardian and the monstrous catskin. He opens his mouth to protest but is cut off by the Warden’s thunderous voice. 

“Go. Do not eat anything until you are safely home. I will return shortly.”

The boy nods stiffly at the command and, after a moment of frozen fear, turns and runs. 

“Such a shame, to have to lie to your own follower.” Enoch purred, sounding insufferably pleased with himself. “He played his part well, a shame I have to release the bait, but you are a far sweeter prize, Warden.”

“What is your aim, Harvest Lord.” The Beast growls. “You cannot kill me.”

“Why would I want to, sapling?” He purrs. The catskin’s leering grin of more teeth than could properly fit inside its mouth widens. 

“I’m not a hungry god.” He purrs. “I’m an overflowing god. I have so much it festers and grows and overfeeds and poisons.” 

“I’m well aware.” The Warden snaps, impatience filling his tune. “Get to the point.”

The catskin’s gilded eyes flicker up and down the Warden once, and his mirth leaks out over his form and into his scent. 

“I’m not a hungry god, but you are.” He croons with delight as warning flags of yellow and red flashed through the Beast’s eyes. “A little insatiable flame, oh so carefully restrained, so you don't become a wildfire. Only feeding yourself enough to stay alive.”

The roots twining themselves around the Warden’s feet creep higher, lacing around his chest and clinging to him. 

Enoch slinks around him, circling with a predatory look in his eyes. 

Something rises up from the earth, thick and heady. It clings to his feet and creeps up along his body, and suddenly he’s choking on the presence of plenty.  Mirth tinges the air with alcohol, but the Beast can barely focus on it as plenty shores itself in the eaves of his bark, weaving itself through the tunnels in his wood. 

His eyes blaze, and he rears back as if he could physically move away from the temptation. 

The Cat watches with those damned golden eyes. 

“I must say, I was hoping you would devour without being prompted.” His tail flicks. “I suppose it was too much to hope. You’re always so careful with restraining that hunger of yours.” 

The Beast intends to retort with a sharp-edged comment about how the Harvest Lord could do with a lesson in self-restraint but gags as soon as he opens his mouth. 

He splutters, the scents of plenty coating his mouth and tongue. 

He glares at the cat. 

And then he goes rigid all at once. 

He feels as if a lance has pierced straight through his chest, directly into hunger, plenty blazing and burning inside of him.

“How?” He manages weakly as he scrounges for control over the ravenous emptiness that was quickly eating through the lance of plenty driven directly into its center. 

“Surely, you didn't think I only wield plenty as a blunt instrument?” Disbelief colors Enoch’s voice and scent, but it hardly matters anymore. 

The Beast’s hunger throws back its head, ravenous, unquenchable, insatiable, and awake, no longer placated by half rations of oil that verged on nothing more than smoke. 

It devours. 

The Beast slumps forward, limp against the roots suspending him as rational thought gives way to hunger. 

It rises up and burns through the fine line of plenty Enoch had managed to wedge into his soul and yanks howling for more.

“Oh!” Faint surprise fills the catskin’s voice. Malicious glee soon replaces it. “There you are.” 

Plenty pours into him, filling almost as fast as he consumes. 

It was as if the single moment that it took an Edelwood to go up in flame was caught in time. The flare of  _ enough _ was suspended, held, and extended. 

Perhaps Enoch simply produces plenty so quickly. Perhaps he was simply a large enough entity that he could take the blow, but at the rate that the Beast was burning through what was spilled into him, most creatures would be dead. 

What little is left of his rational mind that is not indulging in finally consuming tells him that it is worthless. If it does not feed the lantern, it does not fuel the flame. It is nothing more than lotuses, pretty to gaze upon and sweet on the tongue but worth nothing in the stomach. 

It doesn't stop him from greedily devouring the plenty.

Blindly reason submits to the instincts of a starving animal presented with a feast. 

He consumes. 

He devours.

He chokes on the flavor of lotuses. 

* * *

The Beast is jarred from his haze of devouring by Enoch’s voice. 

“I wonder,” It's a half voiced thought, distracted, coming from where the catskin lays curled around him. 

When had the roots binding him shifted so that he was laying down?

“What do you wonder?” He asks, voice hoarse, still ripping and burning through plenty.

A tail flicks against his chin, and he bats at it weakly with his claws, still cresting the high of having his hunger met. 

“Pardon me, sapling,” The Harvest Lord coos. “I didn't realize you were cognizant.”

Silence falls between them, and the Beast struggles to tamp down his hunger, a genuinely herculean undertaking considered Enoch was actively feeding and fanning the flame, which made it rather hard to subdue.

When the harvest lord speaks again, it is in that same quiet private tone that indicates he does not expect the Beast to hear. 

“I suppose it wouldn't be too far fetched.” 

“Spit it out, Cat.” He growls weakly. 

The Harvest Lord’s mirth rings through the air and reverberates through plenty, seeping into the Beast. 

“Nothing, dear,” Enoch purrs. “I was simply considering. You’re made of wood.” Enoch paused poignantly. “Living, growing wood.”

The Beast blinks at the catskin’s golden eyes. 

“Yes.” He says warily, at last. 

“If I could tempt your edels into blossoming, could I tempt you?”

The Beast jerks as if to escape the Harvest Lord. 

The roots growing up around his chest tighten.

“Don’t-” He chokes out hastily, the warning barely off his tongue, claws scrabbling for purchase against loose soil and unyielding roots. 

Plenty, like a vice, crushes the struggle out of him. It forces his attention to his hunger, away from his physical body and the magic currently seeping into his bark. 

“Now, dear, don't struggle.” The catskin purrs, razor teeth grazing his shoulder. 

And then, for the first time in centuries, the Beast blooms. 

He doesn't bloom often, and usually, the blossoms are limited to his antlers, only budding during particularly warm summers. 

He chokes on petals. 

The empty wooden tunnels that carve meandering paths through his body are suffocated by lotuses unfurling their petals. 

His bark and antlers burn with the distinctive itchy feeling of new growth, and he thrashes against the Harvest Lord’s roots. He splutters, lotus petals pouring off of him. 

“Ah,” The cat murmurs in mild surprise, and the harsh grating of growth subsides. The Beast pries an eye open and peers between lotus blossoms to glare at Enoch. 

“I didn't expect you to be so receptive.”

The Beast wants to make a scathing retort and snarl at the Lotus Gardner, but all he manages to choke out around the petals is a pained groan.

A rough tongue strokes up his shoulder, nosing between blossoms. The Beast might even perceive it as an apology had it not been for the snickers that the Lord of Plenty was trying to restrain. 

The Beast makes a weak noise and stares up at the sky, stars twinkling mischievously. The moon blinks mournfully at his plight, and the Beast lets out a shuddering sigh that is indecipherable from the groaning of wood put under too much pressure.  Underneath his head, the harvest lord’s flanks move in a steady breath like motion the Cat does not need. 

The itchy feeling of growth forced too fast into bloom returns, but much gentler than before. It tickles across his shoulders and up his antlers. 

“You’ll have to let me go eventually, Lotus Gardener.”

A rough tongue sweeps up his shoulders through lotuses. 

“Why is that?” 

The Beast struggles to breathe, to smell something other than plenty and contentment and lotuses. 

His souls howl with want fighting to the surface of his bark. 

“Because if you do not, there will be no more trees to feed the lantern, and then I will be nothing but smoke.” 

Teeth prickle sharp against his bark, cleaving, something which might hurt, in a fragmental way, if he was not drowning in plenty. 

“Hmm,” Smugness radiates from the sound. “That will not be for a long while.” 

The Beast hums. 

“With you having poached from my town for the last few decades, my grove is sparser than it has been in centuries.” 

“Be that as it may, Warden.” The cat sounds insufferably pleased with itself. “I know your town has enough stores to last half a millennia.” 

“My burns twice the fuel when I am weakened, and your oasis has made quick work of my strength, Cat.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The cat says distractedly. 

The Warden doesn't beg. 

He does not plead, and he does not bow. 

He kneels for no one and submits to nothing. 

But it has been a hard few decades, decades on a half-full lantern, teetering on the brink of smoke. The Beast is upon the verge of melting, bark forced into bloom, and his souls are in a flurry.

He is tired. 

“Enoch,” He says, voice broken, addressing the Plenty Deity by his name. “Please.” His voice is weak, pitiful. 

He loathes himself for it. 

The cat pauses, concern seeping into its scent. 

“Please,” He rasps. He can’t bring himself to ask for anymore, so he repeats it in a broken mantra. “Enoch, please.” 

“Beast?” The cat’s voice is hesitant and earnest, ears swept back. 

The Warden’s claws scrabble at roots and dirt weakly. 

“Enoch, please.” The normally proud Warden begs, eyes blazing yellow. 

Plenty pours into him, quieting his whimpers and stilling his struggles. 

A tongue smooths over his shoulder, gently, soothing. 

The Beast stares up at the stars. 

And suddenly he’s on fire. 

He’s no mere spark or ember. He’s a wildfire, bright and cold and blinding. 

Ice spirals out of him in fractals, freezing and snapping roots and vines. 

The cat leaps back with a hiss, ice clinging to its flanks. Its sudden movement jolts the Beast, who quickly rolls off of his back.

The Beast stands on staggering feet, eyes blazing. 

He hunches his shoulders, staring at the cat, which paces slowly, eyes fixed on him. 

“Well,” The cat drawls. “That certainly makes this interesting.” 

The Warden casts a glance in the direction of his town, and the cat snarls, but interested mirth dances in its eyes. 

“Can you make it before the flame dies down, little sapling?” The Beast tenses to run, eyes brimming with color. 

“Can you catch me?” He taunts and whirls, running in leaping bounds, which would make even the swiftest of stags swoon. 

He hears the crashing of paws behind him. 

Plenty wrenches, twisting like a knife through his hunger. 

He stumbles, catching himself against a peach tree. 

A set of claws narrowly misses his furs, and he launches himself back into a run. 

The next time Enoch tries to use his plenty to stall the Beast, he shoulders through. 

The Cat isn't the only one who can break treaties and play dirty. 

Ice springs up where his feet touch, sending the catskin skidding on unpracticed paws. 

He ducks and weaves between the trees, leaping effortlessly over obstacles and leaving scoring marks through illusions. 

His flame  _ blazes _ . 

He runs. 

Something hits him in the back, its weight throwing him forward clumsily, and he staggers. 

Claws dig into his cloak, and a low voice purrs teasingly in his ear. 

“Caught you.” 

In a fluid movement, he grabs the cat off his back, and his eyes burn with blue as he holds it in his claws. 

It’s no larger than the ordinary house cat. 

“Too late, Cat.” He hisses as he shoulders his way through the trees. 

“Is it?” 

Roots split the earth tripping the Warden and wrapping around his ankles. 

The Beast hisses, momentum broken. 

He glances down at the cat in his hands then at the roots about him. 

“Yes.” He snarls and throws the catskin as hard as he can into the air, the harvest lord’s yowl of surprise ringing clear through the air. 

The roots around him loosen in surprise, dropping away to catch their body. He takes advantage of the harvest lord’s, and he bounds forward, crashing through thistle and vines and fruit trees and into winter. 

He staggers, leaning against one of his trees, shuddering, eyes bright. 

He gasps for air and embraces the cold scents of despair mingling with the lotuses still blooming from him. 

His hunger crystalizes, no longer softened by the plenty of the Lotus Gardener, its sharp edges catch along his souls as he hollows out. 

His flame dances. 

It burns so much faster, so much colder than it does upon a candle wick or in the confines of his lantern. 

He limps through his forest, furs bristling, leaving behind the siren call of plenty. 

He finds his town quickly.

The bonfire cast monstrous shadows, its white-hot flame fuels by the edellogs that the inhabitants of his town are tending to.

They must have cut down at least three trees to fuel it. 

At the head of it, the man who had sworn on an edelwood, gripping his lantern. He inspects the fire with a critical eye before calling out to his compatriots. 

“Add another!” 

His people frantically move to take another log to toss upon the fire.

The Beast speaks, and they still.

“There is no need.” 

He strides out into the light of the fire, pulling his shadows tight about him. 

Lotuses flutter away from him. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs, voice full of command, addressing the man. 

The man nods. 

“You saved my son.” The man says, and gratefulness pours off of him. “We figured you could use some assistance when he told us what happened.” 

The Beast tilts his head and regards his townsfolk, gathered around the bright fire, illuminating the gauntness of their faces. 

“You have done well.” He tells them, eyes ringed with blue. He glances at the fire and considers it for a moment. “You may let this burn itself out.”

The man nods. 

“Of course, Warden.” 

The Beast moves to speak once more, but a spluttering cough rises in his throat, and he doubles over body shuddering. Unfurling petals choke the wooded pathways that carve through his body. 

His people rush forward, concern in their scents, and he holds up a hand to stop them. They halt, worry in the set of their shoulders. 

He composes himself and straightens. 

“I will take my leave now.” He tells them, voice rough-edged. 

They glance around, grim expressions shared but nod and bid him a good night. 

He leaves them, walking out into the night. 

He only barely makes it out of sight before he allows himself to collapse to his hands and knees, shuddering and convulsing as lotus roots dig through him. 

With blind panicked movements, he rips them from him, dislodging them, shedding petals, dripping viscous oil onto the snow. He tears blindly, claws scrabbling across his bark, trying to gouge them out of his chest. He flings them to the snow, snarling silently as they fill his mouth, blooming up from his throat. 

He shudders violently, mangling his own bark to cast them aside. 

Shadows fall away as he tries to get a better look at himself, rending and tearing at his own form, trying to dislodge the incessant blooms. 

It's midnight by the time they have stopped blooming, and he has finally divested his torso and legs of them. 

He lays weakly in the snow, surrounded by piles of lotuses stained black by his oil. He blinks through color ringed eyes at the truly copious amounts of flowers. 

Tiredly, he drags himself to his feet. 

He doesn't have the energy to rip the flowers from his antlers. 

He sets his shoulders and slowly picks his way through the woods towards the border. 

At it, no feline shape awaits him.

Only a single lotus, a brilliant glowing white, pushing its way up through the snow, greets him. 

An apology?

An olive branch?

A promise? 

A threat?

He doesn’t know. 

Nonetheless, he stoops and plucks it between his claws. 

It smells sweet. 

He casts a glance about the verdant forest bordering his own. 

He turns, lotus in hand, and retreats back into his own forest. 

Whatever it is meant to be. 

He accepts.

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? Suggestions? Prompts? I'm on tumblr [Here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/) This AU initially came from a prompt I got on my tumblr.


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